He was diagnosed with congestive heart failure October 2017. He passed away on June 7, 2019.
I had to make that decision. He was getting worse, and we kept giving him more meds to help stabilize the cough, but they weren't working that great.
Thursday afternoon I took Frank to see his vet. The doctor did not respond in his normal fashion when he listened to Frank's heart. He seemed worried. He asked me to increase some meds and call on Saturday morning to let him know how Frank was doing. That night, Frank coughed for hours straight. He would cough until he couldn't breathe or catch his breath. He would run circles and try to find a comfortable sitting or laying position, only to start coughing again seconds later. I knew in my heart Frank was exhausted and sore, even in pain. He finally fell asleep that night, around 1 or 2 am...and when he woke, he didn't want to move. His neck was all stretched out, and he looked not himself. I knew it was time, and I made that decision. My boyfriend was sad, but I know he agreed.
We went in at 11 am. Right before, he was finally feeling better. I took him to his favorite park, and he walked a bit, but he didn't want to leave. He was walking slow, anyway, and breathing hard. We only stayed for a few minutes, and I had to carry him back. In retrospect, I wish I would have let him lay down outside for a few hours out there.
I asked doctor to let me know if I am making the right decision, and to please listen to him again and see if this was necessary. He said it would be a good time, it was only going to get worse. When Frank was first diagnosed, Dr warned me that the dogs don't usually pass in their sleep, and this disease is a hard, painful death. I knew I would have to put him to sleep, but I didn't ever want to. I didn't want him to experience death in fear or in pain, either.
It was a good experience, for euthanasia, I guess. Dr explained the process, and both of his assistants were present, and they all loved Frank. They all kissed him and pet him. I was able to hold him most of the time. He even snored a bit before the final injection. He went quickly, and even though I am crying now, I am happy it was done at the doctor's office instead of the emergency room in the middle of the night. I couldn't let him go through another night like that again. That might have been selfish of me to want to make sure his final breath was surrounded by his own doctor, nurses, and me. We were blessed with a long journey, longer than anyone thought we would get. We also were blessed to have Frank as long as we did. Again, I am selfish, because it wasn't enough time. I hope God knows I am grateful for every second. Every trying second. I hope he knows the amount of money we spent-- the frustrations with all the laundry, the carpet getting little piddles that needed to be cleaned up, the food, the attitude when he wasn't feeling well...it was all something I would do again in a heartbeat if I could. None of it mattered. Frank being comfortable, Frank healthy enough to keep going, and Frank living was all that mattered to me.
I hope Frank forgives me, and I hope he knows how much I love him. Forever. I just need to prove to myself and God I am worthy enough to see that little boy again. I was bonded to him. I feel like my heart is missing a chunk. That little boy was there for me when I was sick. He was the reason (I am sure) that I lived. I could not die because I could not abandon him. I rescued him, and I promised him I would be there for him, forever. It hurts. It hurts so much. It hurts to put his stuff away and it hurts to decide what goes to a shelter and what stays. It hurts to look at it if I leave it where it is. It hurts to be home alone. It hurts to think its time to take him potty or give him pills. I would work in my home office all day, and talk to that little dude ALL DAY. Carry him up and down stairs, take him potty, take him to the doctor, pills 4x/day. Water all the time. Treats, his special diet. My life was wrapped up in Frank, and when he napped, I napped. I loved feeling him stretch out and press his little body against my leg or cuddle himself up in a ball in my nook by my chest. One of a kind.
It hurts.
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